Three shots, she thinks, maybe four; it’s hard to tell in the dark. One of them whistles ominously with Davath’s every breath, and Aiah presses her palm over it to stop the noise. His gray skin is turning milky. “See if the cops have first-aid gear,” she says.
The cops do. Just disinfectant and gauze and some patches, but it’s better than nothing, and it stops the oozing from Davath’s wounds, not to mention the whistling noise.
Davath, beyond speech, takes Aiah’s hand and kisses it with chill lips. Tears sting her eyes at the gesture.
She looks at the plasm main running over their heads. If only she had some way to tap the vast store of power, she could make some attempt to repair Davath—but she doesn’t have the hardware, or the medical skill.
“What do we do now?” Prestley asks.
“We can’t carry him all the way back,” Aiah says. “So Fll stay here and you’ll have to run back and bring up the boat.”
“I don’t know how to get here by water.”
She looks at him, heat flashing through her. “Find a way, damn it!”
His eyes widen. “Sorry,” he says. “But it may take a while.”
Regret chases the anger through her mind. “Sorry I shouted,” she says. “Ethemark will return soon. I’ll have him fetch you here.”
“Good.”
“Give me the gun. I may need it.”
He looks at the gun he’s stuck in his waistband, then turns to bring a fresh weapon from one of the dead cops. He puts it in her hand and it’s surprisingly heavy, surprisingly awkward, surprisingly gunlike. She licks her lips. “How do I work it?”
Prestley’s expression is unreadable in the dark. “Hold it like this. Press your thumb here to take the safety off, then press the trigger. You’ll have seven shots or so.”
“It’s that easy?”
“Shooting it, yes. Do you want me to show you how to reload?”
Aiah shakes her head. “No time. Get the boat here now.” She doesn’t see herself as a gunfighter anyway. “Stay with us, man.” Prestley gives Davath’s shoulder a squeeze, and then scrambles away down the catwalk.
Aiah waits in the dark, her heartbeat marking time.
Davath’s massive trunk leans against hers, his head on her shoulder. Wounded, his massive stoneface frame useless, he seems to become more human with every drop of blood that oozes from his body. His hoarse breathing moistens the corner of her neck and shoulder. Her arms are around him, hands clasping the gun. She points the gun at the open hatch, wondering if anyone will miss the three cops, if police reinforcements will arrive.
And then her heart leaps at the sound of a massive crash. The concrete wall next to her seems to leap as well. Rust particles flake down in the beam of her headlamp like falling snow. Another crash follows, then another.
A battle is being fought nearby, perhaps right overhead. She tries to decide whether she should cut Xurcal Station’s power or not, and eventually decides that if a battle is being fought, she should cut off as much of the enemy’s power as she can.
As gently as she can, she moves Davath so that he leans against the concrete wall, then rises to inspect the plasm junction. She reaches for the control box, moves the rotator to the neutral position, takes the fuse box from the controller, and throws it in the sea. She takes a hammer from Davath’s belt and beats the control box into fragments, then waits, the hammer in her hand, as she catches her breath.
She doesn’t know how to use the welding torch, so she can’t do any more damage. She puts the hammer down, picks up the gun, and sits by Davath again. She puts her arms around him, then waits.
A few minutes later, Davath’s death rattle begins. She rests her head on his shoulder. Blood stains her cheek, then tears. A few bats circle hopelessly overhead, looking for safety. Explosions send rust and dust drifting down onto the sprawled humans, living and dead. She brushes it from Davath’s face. His skin is clammy and cold.
—Aiah! Vida’s mercy! What’s happened here!
Primal rage coils around Aiah’s heart.
—Ethemark! Where were you?
—There’s a mage battle going on upstairs. Someone kept cutting my sourceline. I’ve been trying to get back here and—
—Davath’s been shot. Prestley’s gone back for the boat.
—The police? Are they dead?
—Yes.
—Vida the Compassionate. Her mercy on us.
—Can you get a plasm surgeon here? Aiah asks. We might be able to—
—We don’t have enough of them, Aiah. They’re all busy and—
—Try, will you? Davath saved our lives!—I’ll see what I can do. But you’ve got to cut plasm to Xurcal.
—I already have. But I couldn’t weld the rotator closed; I don’t know how.
—It’s only important that you cut it. The rebels won’t have a chance for repairs anytime soon.
—See if you can find us a plasm doctor. And check if you can find the boat.
—Which first?
—The doctor, I think.
—I’ll try. I’ll have to go for a while.
—Then go!
Ethemark vanishes from Aiah’s mind as abruptly as if someone had thrown a switch. The rattle in Davath’s throat seems to fill the darkness, crowding out the sound of battle overhead.
The boat finds Aiah before Ethemark returns, but by then Davath has stopped breathing and lies cold in Aiah’s arms. She, Prestley, and the boat’s crew pick up the huge corpse and wrestle it into the boat. Only then does Aiah notice the boat is damaged, windscreen starred with bullets and gouges scarring the gunwale.
“We can’t go back the way we came,” the helmsman says. “Police there, and they shot at us.”
“Pull out into midchannel,” Aiah says. “We’ll wait for Ethemark.”
But Ethemark does not return. Artillery continues to hammer overhead. Eventually the crew grows too nervous remaining around the plasm junction and try to find a way around the roadblock, moving into mazes of dark watery corridors, barnacle-encrusted steel and concrete, tangles of forgotten barges and half-sunken boats. Every way out seems guarded by police. Eventually they give up and just drift in the darkness, alone with the boat, the body, and their own weariness. Heavy guns continue to pound overhead.
Aiah is drowsing, leaning in despair against the gunwale, when there is a sudden splashing astern. She snaps upright, fumbling for the gun in her lap.
“Is this the magnificent watercraft containing the illumi-nous Aiah, princess of plasm and all humanity?” A bright, burbling voice.
“Aranax?” Aiah gasps. She lunges out of her seat and looks over the stern, sees the dolphin grinning at her from below.
The dolphin splashes in the water with spatulate fingers. “I do not have the honor of being the magnificent Prince Aranax, sublime and wise, who even now is engaged in combat against the forces of darkness and ignorance. This insignificant being is Arroy Pasha, and the glorious, all-knowing Constantine has sent me to find you and bring your exalted self to safe harbor.”
Aiah wants to throw off her hard hat and dance, but she composes herself to reply to the dolphin in his own strain.
“Arroy Pasha,” she says, “your wisdom and compassion exceeds that of the immortals. If your sublimity is ready, I humbly beg you to lead our trivial selves away from this battlefield.”
“It is my exceptional joy and delight to take some insignificant part in the preservation of your illuminous self,” the dolphin says, and then tosses his head and submerges, out-curved feet kicking high as he dives.